


Marry Our Fortunes

by shutterbug



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, America, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bandits & Outlaws, Bears, Domestic, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Rescue, Sex, Surprises, Travel, american west
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-01-07 13:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18411686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: When Jackson is exiled to America, Reid decides to follow him.(AU from the "Jackson and Reid's heart-wrenching farewell" scene in the series finale.)





	1. We Walked Off

**Author's Note:**

> A thank you to @iloveallofyounerds for being a lovely friend and Muse. 
> 
> And thank you to everyone who gives this a read, especially those who leave me feedback and comments. So, so incredibly appreciated. ♥

The docks bustled with life and noise. Ahead of him, people filed onto a liner bound for New York. Jackson squinted at it. Rust colored parts of the hull. The paint was faded and discolored. The anchor looked as if it would break off at the lightest touch.

Scotland Yard sprung only for the best for him and his boy.

His recent dealings with the Yard had wiped away most of his leanings toward sentimentality, but he could not let himself turn away from Reid with such hopeless words. _It don’t matter._ In his heart, Jackson knew different. It all mattered. Caitlin mattered. Her death mattered. Connor mattered. Reid, and all that they had enjoyed and suffered--all that they had lost and learned--mattered.

With his hand still on Connor’s little shoulder, Jackson turned back and found Reid where he left him. “Look. Reid,” he said, stepping toward him.

Reid closed the rest of the distance between them. Bright hope shone in his eyes.

Jackson set his case at his feet. “I know you ain’t much of a runner. But we could make room for you, if you, uh--”

Reid’s hope dwindled, and he shook his head with frown. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because”--Reid swallowed and peered at the sky, the docks, the ship that loomed over them--“my sentence is to be carried out here. Yours, in America. It is our fate, Jackson, already decided.”

“And you're satisfied with that, are you?”

Reid dropped his gaze, chewing on his bottom lip. Jackson felt the gust of Reid's sigh on his face. Reid may as well have shouted his answer; dissatisfaction imprinted itself on all of his features.

He curled his hand around Reid's forearm and, as Reid met his eyes, he urged, “So come with us. With _me_ , Reid.”

“Mathilda is here.” Reid wore a pained expression, worry-lines deep between his eyebrows.

No stranger to the agony that accompanied the prospect of leaving a child behind, Jackson squeezed Reid's shoulder. He asked a lot, he knew, but the idea of a life alone, without Reid, made Jackson’s stomach turn. "I know."

“The Yard will _look_ for me, Jackson. And when they _find_ me--”

“They won’t find you. America’s too big.” Reid set his jaw and stared at him--a silent warning, as if Jackson approached dangerous territory. Jackson picked up his case. “It’s your choice, Reid. But remember that you _have_ one.”

As Jackson turned away, Reid called after him. “Where will you go?”

“Not sure!” he shouted over the dockyard din, then peered over his shoulder. “Wyoming. Montana. The mountains, somewhere.”

Reid nodded.

Then Jackson gathered Connor close. Fighting to ignore the sharp ache in his chest, he walked toward the liner and whispered to himself, “Take care, Reid.”


	2. In My Raincoat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund could not be sure that he would find Jackson. But he hoped--he desperately hoped--he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thank you to @iloveallofyounerds for being a lovely friend and Muse.
> 
> And thank you to everyone who gives this a read, especially those who leave me feedback and comments. So, so incredibly appreciated. ♥

Rain pooled in the streets. Thunder rumbled overhead. And, as Edmund ran from his house to the docks, water dripped from the rim of his bowler. He had left his umbrella beside the front door. Too cumbersome, it would only impede him.

He wondered if Mathilda would take it with her when she and Drummond moved to Cheltenham.

He and Mathilda had spoken for hours. Alone, they had planned for his departure and, as best they could, laid out the details of his journey. She had helped him pack. Only the most essential belongings had made it into his single case.

In the foyer, she had clasped onto him with a fierce, long hug. When she’d lowered herself from her tiptoes and stood before him--his bold, brave girl--he had studied her, committing all that he could to his memory. His heart had hammered with intense, warm love for her, and he’d gathered her in his arms, not ready to part with her.

“I love you,” he’d whispered.

“And I love you, Father. Now go. Be happy. Write as soon as you can, but only--”

“Address it to Miss Castello. Yes, I know.” He’d scanned her face again, letting his breath leave him, and added, “You will always be what I love most in the world.”

“I will visit once you’re settled. I promise.”

With a nod, and one last, tight hug, Edmund had left and raced from Fairclough Street toward the river.

And, as he ran, he tried to avoid obstacles--puddles and passers-by, the most common. He nearly trampled a stray puppy, but managed to change course and dart out of its way.

His chest heaved with exertion when he finally reached the docks, cash in hand, and approached a seller to purchase tickets for the next ship bound for America.

“Name?” asked the seller, taking his payment.

Edmund blinked. “Name?”

“Yours. For the ship’s manifest.”

“Oh,” Edmund said. “Of course. Uh.” His mind whirled. He had forgotten about the necessity of a false name, unless he wanted Scotland Yard to effortlessly track him down and drag him back to Whitechapel. “James.”

“James _what_?”

“James Driver.”

“Well, Mr. James Driver, here you are,” said the seller, handing him his ticket for the Atlantic’s SS Marquette, bound for New York.

Edmund pocketed his ticket and stood near the gangway, waiting to board.

As the crew embarked, along with supplies, Edmund fished in his case for a pen and paper. He crouched and, using his case as a desk, wrote a short note to Mathilda, via Miss Castello. _About to board SS Marquette for New York. Address future correspondence to James Driver. I will write again when settled in America. Be well, my darling girl._

Hours later, he stood on the deck of the Marquette as the sun set, gazing at the ups-and-downs of London’s architecture as it fell away. The wind blew his hair away from his face. Nerves and second-guesses made his muscles tense and his breaths shallow.

He could not be sure that he would find Jackson. But he hoped--he desperately hoped--he would.

Edmund leaned against the railing along the edge of the deck until darkness fell, and London disappeared into the night.


	3. Empty and Aching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Cheyenne, Jackson finds himself playing doctor to a gang of outlaws.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thank you to @iloveallofyounerds for being a lovely friend and Muse.
> 
> And thank you to everyone who gives this a read, especially those who leave me feedback and comments. So, so incredibly appreciated. ♥

Jackson and Connor arrived in New York on the third of the month. It took another fourteen days to reach Denver. Then another to disembark in Cheyenne.

He had planned to travel all the way to Helena, but Connor had caused consistent disruptions between Denver and Cheyenne, and Jackson had been able to muster no more patience for the boy.

So he’d set up shop in Cheyenne. The magic city of the plains.

The first week had posed logistical problems. A lack of lodging. Little money. Even less food. But Jackson had ponied up enough cash to rent a room, then secured a governess to look after Connor. Next up, a job. Any job.

His search led him to the only place where he found peace and solace. The bar. Nearest one to his place--and probably the dirtiest.

He spent the second week with his hand around bottles of whiskey. Apathy overtook him. He spoke to no one, but for the bartender on duty, Connor, and Miss Wilson, his governess. The girl, bless her, fed Connor out of her own pocket. At least someone did.

At the end of their third week, Jackson slumped onto his bed. He pulled a hardcover book onto his lap and, on top it, laid a clean piece of paper. His pen hovered over it for a few moments. Then, with a deep sigh, he began to scribble.

_Reid--made it to Cheyenne._

His face crinkled with disgust as he ripped the paper into pieces.

The next night, he tried again.

He scrawled a second sentence before tossing the crumpled paper into the trash.

In the middle of the fourth week, he narrowly escaped a scuffle in the bar. He stopped running his mouth in time for the two largest men to shift their targets, and, once the fight concluded and the pugilists left the bar, Jackson volunteered his medical services to the winner.  

The man, bald with thin, blonde eyebrows, eyed him with suspicion. “Why should I listen to you? You a doctor?”

“At your service.” Jackson bowed with as grand an air as possible and flashed a toothy smile.

“A _real_ doctor?”

“Yeah, a real doctor,” Jackson said, annoyance in his voice. “Now shut up, and let me clean you up.”

Before he sent the man on his way, Jackson wrote his name and address on a scrap of paper. He was contacted in less than a week.

The same man sat before him, this time in an empty barn, a half-hour’s distance from the middle of Cheyenne. A deep gash in his arm needed stitches.

As Jackson searched in his bag for antiseptic, he remarked, “You’re quite the fightin’ man, aren’t you?”

The man scowled, but presented his arm for treatment. “It’s necessary.”

“I see,” said Jackson, cleaning the wound. “What are you? Self-proclaimed bandits of the American West?”  

“We don’t call ourselves nothin’ in particular,” he replied, hissing as Jackson rubbed at the wound. “We take what work we can come by.”  

“Must make a pretty penny, outlaws like yourselves.”

“We do all right.”

Jackson prepared his needle. “I should say, Mister…”

“Jackson.”

Jackson blinked. He cleared his throat in an attempt to suppress his laughter. “First name or last?”

“First.” The man grinned. "Funny coincidence." 

“Mm.” He applied some ice to the wound and waited, then stitched the wound--a clean, neat job. “I expect to be paid for my assistance, uh, Jackson.”

The bandit nodded.

Returning his things to his bag, Jackson added, “And my silence.”

“Yeah,” Bandit-Jackson said, resigned. “Figured as much.” He produced a folded stack of cash. “Here.”

Jackson took the stack and eyed it. “This might be enough for my services, but my silence”--he shook his head--”well, it’s goin’ to cost you more than this.”

The bandit stared at him and, after several seconds, broke into a wide, open smile. “A man after my own heart!” His hand dived into his pocket and emerged with more money. “For your services and silence.”

“I’ll need more for....” Jackson considered his phrasing. “More substantial injuries.”

“Naturally.”

Jackson nodded, pocketing his earnings. He shouldered his bag and peered at the bandit, who had started to dress himself. He felt bold, interested to see how much trust he could gain in his short visit, and asked, “Any good jobs on the horizon?”

“Yeah,” Bandit-Jackson responded. No hesitation. Jackson grinned. “Train heist.”

“That’ll require resources.”

“We’ve got ‘em. Acquired some horses recently. Might as well use ‘em.”

Jackson nodded.

Reid flashed in his mind. Reid, the policeman. Reid, the bastion of righteous justice. And he, Jackson, had flipped like an old quarter from one side to the other--from crime-fighting to crime-aiding. Not that he hadn’t always had a foot in both camps. But this felt different, somehow. The money, maybe.

Reid’s sanctimonious voice whispered in his mind. Warned him to abandon this business. And, with a softer voice, told him that he had the skill and talent to create his own business, find his own way. To make an honest living.

Jackson gritted his teeth and swallowed. He drew a deep breath, clearing his mind. He turned to the bandit. “Now try not to get yourself shot, but if you do, you know where to find me. When’s the job?”

“Two weeks.”

“I’ll make sure I’m available.”  


	4. Gone to Look for America

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reid makes his way across America in search of Jackson, but is unexpectedly sidetracked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thank you to @iloveallofyounerds for being a lovely friend and Muse.
> 
> And thank you to everyone who gives this a read, especially those who leave me feedback and comments. So, so incredibly appreciated. ♥

Edmund expected the people of America to be--for better or worse--an amalgam of Jackson’s person. A little dirty. Drunk half of the time. Clever. Rash, but decisive. Charming, in a way.

Now that he had met a fair number, however, he realized that Jackson was an anomaly. Edmund had met plenty of drunk Americans. Clever Americans. Americans who spoke so directly they bordered on impolite.

But he had met none with Jackson’s particular brand of charm.

If he _had_ , perhaps he would have felt disenchanted, called off his search, but he had boarded a train bound for Cheyenne. He had heard Jackson speak of Wyoming often enough. Even when he’d left, he’d mentioned the state by name. It seemed as good as any place to begin, alone in this enormous country.

Upon his arrival in New York, he had purchased a book--a collection of short stories by Edgar Allan Poe--and an atlas of America. Train and stagecoach routes were all marked, and every several pages boasted bubbles of information regarding local cities.

In his compartment, Edmund could not help but roll his eyes at the concept of most American “cities.” Scant, with modest populations, most of these towns seemed to revolve around agriculture or mining. Hardly the epicenters of culture and society he had hoped to find.

He took coffee as he planned his strategy--he had already experienced American “ _tea_ ” and may as well have had water. Its coffee, while not as strong as the Turkish variety he had grown accustomed to, nevertheless treated his taste buds to a robust flavor. He studied the atlas’s insight about Cheyenne. He learned very little.

He learned even less as he crossed the American plains. The dull, flat, and predominantly empty American plains. One afternoon, he spied a herd of buffalo. He wished the train could stop, so he could admire the quiet power and majesty of the great beasts, but he lost sight of them in a matter of seconds.

On the fifth night, as he lay in his narrow bed, he slid his hand down his drawers and took hold of himself. He brought himself to a breathless climax within minutes, Jackson’s name on his lips.

He wondered--hoped with nearly his entire being--that Jackson had traveled west.

The train had recently crossed into Wyoming when it came to a slow stop. Edmund hadn’t noticed the decrease in speed, but when he peered out of his window, he saw a stationary landscape. With a wrinkled brow, he left his compartment.

Shouts came from his left. The cargo hold. Without hesitation, Edmund dashed toward the noise. When he pushed open the door, he found a rail employee attempting to wrestle a pistol from the hand of a tall, masked man. A handkerchief covered the lower half of his face.

Edmund rushed forward to help. He reached for the gun, taken aback by the masked man’s strength. The rail employee gave up, backing away, but Edmund renewed his attempt to disarm the man.

“Surrender your weapon!” he shouted.

“And who are you to say so, Englishman?”

Edmund blinked, but set his jaw and tried to pull the gun from the man’s grasp. “A policeman. Now let go!”

The man grinned. “Sorry about this, copper,” he said, his eyes alight with amusement.

Before Edmund could process his words, a blunt object struck his back--a blow to his kidney. He grunted, pain spreading across his back. Then he spun to face his assailant, who raised a slender, wooden club. Edmund lunged forward, but not fast enough.

The last thing he remembered was the swing of the club and the loud, abrupt sound of the train whistle.


	5. The Man in the Gabardine Suit Was a Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jackson is called in to treat a bullet wound, he learns that a "lawman" has been taken captive and needs rescuing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thank you to @iloveallofyounerds for being a lovely friend and Muse.
> 
> And thank you to everyone who gives this a read, especially those who leave me feedback and comments. So, so incredibly appreciated. ♥

Jackson could have guessed that _one_ of his newly-acquainted outlaw customers would get themselves shot during the train heist and, sure enough, he was roused from his meager apartment on the very day.

When Jackson arrived with his escort, a kid named Bill, the gang’s house bustled with activity. If pressed, he would describe the house as more a _property_. It included the house, a barn, stables, and a warehouse-like structure. Fields and woods surrounded the property. A dirt road, blocked by a gate, led to the house. Above the gate, a metal arch proclaimed:  _Gaucho Ranch._

“Ranch, my ass,” Jackson murmured to himself as he passed under the arch. Hell, _gaucho,_ his ass. They weren’t no cowboys, and this wasn’t no ranch. Anyone with eyes could see that. This was a hideout. This was a headquarters. Not no _ranch._

“Mal’s in the barn,” said the kid.

Jackson nodded, bypassing the house, leaving the kid behind him. When he entered the barn, he found Mal sprawled across a bed of hay bales. Blood oozed from his thigh.

“Thigh wound, huh?” Jackson asked, as he knelt down next to him. “What happened?”

“Damn crossfire,” Mal hissed. He tensed when Jackson adjusted his leg to examine it.

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, then rifled through his medical bag. “Good news is that the bullet came out the other side. No need to dig for it.”

“Oh. Great.”

Jackson grinned without sympathy. “You got my money?”

“Jackson’s got it.”

“No, Jackson _don’t_ got it.”

After Mal rolled his eyes with more derision than a man in need of medical attention had any right to do, he called for the other Jackson and cash changed hands. Jackson repaired the wound without a fuss--he finished in less than a half-hour.

As he returned his supplies and tools to his bag, a loud roar erupted from nearby. Outside the barn, but close. Jackson squinted and looked to Mal. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked.

“Oh,” Mal replied. “Just a fight.”

“A _fight_?”

“Yeah, but it ain’t a real fight.”

Jackson shouldered his bag and tilted his head at Mal. “Not sure I take your meaning.”

“Picked up a lawman on the train, tryin’ to break up the heist.” Mal dressed himself in a pair of trousers that could use a wash.

“Picked up? You mean you brought him back  _here_?” Jackson slapped his hat on his head.

“Weren’t goin’ to leave him _there_ , were we? A dead body to find? No, we brought him here, so as to get rid of him proper-like.”

Another roar cut through air. Jackson’s guts twisted with instinctual fear.

“Plus,” Mal added. “We all get to ‘ave a little enter _tain_ ment. Come on.” Mal nodded toward the door. “I bet the boys’ll let you place a bet, still.”

Suspicion ran icy through Jackson’s core, but he followed Mal to the warehouse, a long, high-ceilinged building with small, square windows. He heard the hubbub--the indistinct chatter of men--before he stepped through the open doors.

Inside, men clustered together on a raised platform at one side of the warehouse. At the opposite end, a tall stone wall stretched across the breadth of the warehouse.

Jackson climbed the ladder to reach the platform and pushed his way to the front of the crowd to see beyond the wall.

His jaw slackened as he gazed down into an open pit. Sawdust covered the floor. A man stood like a well-dressed statue in the center of the pit, his back to the onlookers. Twenty feet away, a massive bear plodded across the sawdusty expanse.

“Oh, my God.” Jackson turned to Mal, who had joined him at the front. “Does anyone ever bet against the bear?”

“Nah, you bet on time. How long he’s goin’ to last. I give it ten minutes ‘til he’s good an’ dead.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, like I said, it ain’t a real fight.”  

“No, it’s not,” Jackson mumbled, staring at the rearing grizzly, which let loose another snarly growl. It stood eight feet tall, at least. It dwarfed the man that moved backwards, one slow step at a time, toward the wall. Jackson felt his damn _asshole_ tighten.

The bear lowered itself down onto its four enormous paws and lumbered after the man. Jackson watched, horror alive in his chest, as the man turned and backpedaled to find open space. He looked familiar--his hair, his build, his movements. Jackson squinted, shifting across the platform for a better look.

And, with a better look, Jackson’s breath left him as if he’d been sucker-punched.

Reid.

Christ. Somehow-- _somehow--_ it was Reid trapped in that pit, with wide-eyed terror on his face. His God damned handsome face.

Under his breath, Jackson muttered, “Son of a bitch.”

“Huh?” asked Mal.

Jackson’s eyes flickered away from Reid, but only for a moment. “I said, ‘what a _son_ of a _bitch_.’” And he meant it. The bastard who had consumed his life for the better part of a decade, the English _prick_ who had turned down the very _idea_ of joining him in exile had ended up here-- _here,_ in the hands of a robbers and killers, because he could not keep his well-spoken, tea-drinking, know-better nose _out of other people’s business._ Jesus Christ.

And despite the flash of hot anger that sizzled in his chest, Jackson’s heart leapt at the sight of Reid, there, again in his universe.

A rumbling roar pulled Jackson from his reverie, and his eyes swiveled to the bear. It took its time, approaching Reid at a slow, regular pace. Unhurried, but purposeful.

Reid kept a safe distance between himself and the bear, his eyes locked onto the animal. Even from where he stood, Jackson saw Reid’s torso heaving with fast, shallow breaths. Reid tore his gaze from the bear to look about him. He raised his head and glanced at the platform.

When his eyes landed on Jackson, Reid froze. His mouth fell open. Jackson stared at him, jostled by the men around him.

“Reid,” he whispered, then blinked, shaken as the bear swung a giant paw at Reid’s head.

Reid tumbled over, then scrambled to his feet and shuffled away from the bear, his face awash with panic. Blood snaked down his neck.

Around Jackson, men cheered.

Jackson watched the bear stand tall, heard it snarl with a sound that chilled his bones. Then, with a last look at Reid, he turned and dashed through the crowd, down the ladder, and out of the warehouse.

He ran as fast as his feet would carry him, breathing in choked gasps as he stomped into the barn. He hunted in his bag, finally retrieving his matchbox. With shaking hands, he struck a match and tossed it onto a stack of hay. He lit and threw another onto the same stack. Then another. When the hay caught fire, he moved to a different stack, on the other side of the barn. Soon, flames rose from among the bales scattered throughout the barn, and Jackson raced back to the warehouse.

Jackson breathed with relief when he found Reid still alive. In his absence, Reid had sustained a new injury--his sleeve hung down his arm in shreds, blood darkening the fabric--but he still lived, keeping to the perimeter, out of the bear’s immediate reach.

With a calm demeanor, Jackson turned to the man beside him. “Hey,” he said, channeling all the nonchalance he could muster. “You smell that? Smells like smoke.”

“You’re right.” The man sniffed. “It does.”

Then Jackson heard the man pass along the information. Soon, men all around him scattered.

“Fire! There’s a fire in the barn! The barn’s on fire! Fire!”

Jackson took his cue and joined the others as they scuttled down the ladder. While most of the other men darted out of the warehouse and toward the barn, Jackson sped toward the wall.

He climbed it without much difficulty, the uneven stones providing ample footholds. Sprawling over the wall’s broad top, he reached down. “Reid! Reid! Run!”

Reid’s frantic eyes moved between Jackson and the bear as he sprinted toward the wall. The bear gave chase.

Jackson gritted his teeth, his arm and hand outstretched, as Reid neared him, the bear close behind. Then a desperate grasp, heave, pained yell, a grunt, a roar--and Reid and Jackson tumbled from the top of the wall and onto the hard, dirt floor of the warehouse.

Reid lay in a crumpled, dirty heap at the base of the wall. His whole body shook with his breaths, with soft, strangled cries.

“Reid,” Jackson said, glancing at the warehouse doors. The place had emptied, and, so far, no one had come back. Jackson squeezed Reid’s shoulder. “Reid, it’s okay.”

“Jackson. My God,” he whispered, throwing a hand across his abdomen. “Jackson, I’m, uh, I’m--” Before he finished his sentence, Reid twisted to the side and retched.

Jackson’s chest tightened, full of sympathy for Reid. He slid his hand along Reid’s shoulder and up the clean side of his neck. Reid gasped and heaved under Jackson’s hand, and Jackson edged closer to him. Jackson’s fingers stroked the hair at the back of Reid’s head as he lowered his mouth to Reid’s ear. “It’s all right. I’ve got you. It’s all right.” He pressed his lips to Reid’s temple, wincing when Reid convulsed with another fit of nausea.

His breath flowed easier when Reid’s body stopped its revolt and Reid finally responded, curling a hand around his forearm and squeezing. Jackson knelt in front of him, wrapping one arm around Reid’s shoulders, the other around his head.

“I never thought I’d find a place full of more horrors than Whitechapel, but _this_ place…” Reid paused to draw breath and press his face into Jackson’s neck. Jackson swallowed hard; Reid nuzzled him like a scared, beaten puppy. “This place is hell on earth, Jackson. How can you--how can you--”

“Live here?” Jackson asked, a chuckle in his voice. He let his hand glide over Reid’s back. “You know, it’s not so bad with the right company.”

Then, several voices rang out. Three men rushed across the field. Behind them, bright flames engulfed the barn. “He’s a spy! A lawman! Don’t let ‘em leave! Get the bastards!”

“Come on, Reid. Time to go.” With effort, Jackson hauled Reid to his feet, and, together, they made a run for the doors.


	6. Seems Like a Dream to Me Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson and Edmund flee, clarifying a few things along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thank you to @iloveallofyounerds for being a lovely friend and Muse. Good job on your finals!
> 
> And thank you to everyone who gives this a read, especially those who leave me feedback and comments. So, so incredibly appreciated. ♥

“Wait! Jackson, stop!”

Adrenaline and panic had carried Edmund for miles. His torn sleeve floated beside him like a shredded, battle-torn flag. He tried to catch his breath.

In the wake of the fire, Jackson had led him off the property and into the forest.

He had no idea that Jackson could run--full-tilt--for so long.

“Jackson.” The word barely left Edmund’s mouth intact. He panted, hands on his knees. “I need to stop.”

Jackson slowed, stopped, and--finally--turned to him. He let his bag drop to the ground. “Reid, we should really keep goin’.”

“Why?” he asked, still doubled over. “Are we not yet far enough away by--”

“ _Why_?” Jackson’s shout could have felled an oak. “Because if we _stop,_ ” he said, advancing on him. “I might have to _slap_ you for being such a _God damned_ idiot! _Damn_ it, Reid!” Jackson brought himself to a halt a mere two inches from him.

Edmund turned his face away from Jackson’s raised hand. “ _What_? I--”

“How in the _hell_ did you end up at the mercy of those--” Jackson pointed toward the ranch. “Those....”

“Monsters? Yes, well, it begs me to ask,” Edmund shouted, eager to defend himself against an attack on his judgment and character. “How did _you_ end up in such _charm_ ing company? Were you--” Reid paused, his whole body stock-still, realization striking him. “Oh, my God, you were _work_ ing for them! You were _help_ ing them!”

Jackson stepped backwards. “I wasn’t _help_ ing them!”

“Then what were you doing there?” Edmund stared at him. Waiting. “Jackson?”

“I--yes! Yes, okay? I was working for them!”

“And you have the _nerve_ to say you’d slap _me!_ After all the years we spent together, with the po _lice,_ you run off and--”

“Oh, _please_ , Reid, as if you are pristine model of upstanding character!”

Edmund finally stood up, his back straight. “Everything I have ever done was borne of necessity!”

“Out of con _ven_ ience! Don’t _kid_ yourself, Reid! And that is ex _act_ ly what I did, and I won’t have _you_ gettin’ all high an’ mighty about it.” Jackson pointed a rigid finger at him. “I _saved_ you!”

Leaves crunched under Edmund’s feet as he stepped forward. “Well, _thank_ you. Perhaps I wouldn’t have _need_ ed saving if I hadn’t come all the way across this _savage_ country to _find_ you.” His heart beat wildly, a steady, hard _thump-drum_ in his chest.

Jackson advanced until he stood toe-to-toe with him. “Yeah, well!” he shouted. “Maybe you wouldn’t have had to _find_ me if you had come with me in the _first_ place!”

Edmund blinked as Jackson’s breath blew across his face. They stared at each other. Immobile. Lock-jawed.

Then Jackson closed the distance between them, cupped his jaw, and kissed him.

For a moment, Edmund heard his own voice. His own breathless, muffled groans as Jackson’s tongue--his _tongue_ \--pushed past his lips and entered his mouth. Darting to and fro--in and out--like a hummingbird. Leaving Edmund tempted to chase him.

But his sense returned to him and images from the past week sprung to mind. With a harsh breath, Edmund shoved Jackson away and stared at him.

“I was almost eaten by a bloody _bear_.”

Jackson stepped forward, but not close enough to reach him. “I didn’t ask you to try to stop a train heist, but you just--”

“It’s like I was thrown into some--”

“--couldn’t help yourself from stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong.”

“--twisted version of the Roman Colosseum!”

“You couldn't stop being a policeman for two _sec_ onds.” Jackson took another step closer.

Blue met blue as they squinted at each other. Taking the measure of one another.

Jackson broke eye contact first, bending down to retrieve his bag. “As much as I hate to cut this short, we should keep goin’.”

“Where?”

“Montana.”

“Mon _t_ _ana_? Why?”

“Connor will be there,” Jackson answered, matter-of-factly. He adjusted his bag on his shoulder. “Well. Hopefully. As soon as I started working for those...for them, I made arrangements with his governess to take him to Montana if I ever, uh...failed to pick him up.”

“And you were due to--”

“Two hours ago.” Jackson met his eyes. Edmund sighed, sympathy finally surfacing on his face. “We should get a move-on.”

They marched through the forest for several hours. They did not speak. Every so often, Edmund increased his pace to draw even with Jackson, craning his neck to study Jackson’s face. Jackson always appeared determined. Focused. Undeterred. Edmund’s mouth twitched with an affectionate start-of-a-grin. It never quite matured into a full smile.

When it seemed as though they had crossed the entire frontier, Jackson finally stopped. He pulled a package from his bag, unwrapped it, and thrust the contents toward him. “Jerky?” Jackson asked. “It’s good.”

Edmund took it. He bit down. It was like chewing leather. He grinned without a word. It was not good.

When he managed to swallow the--what had Jackson called it? _Jerk_ y?--some kind of _food_ , Edmund cleared his throat and spoke. “Is this how it will be?”

“What?”

“Constantly going from one place to another?” Edmund asked. He did not take another piece of jerky when Jackson offered it. “Running from God knows what?”

Jackson chewed his dried meat even as he responded. “Come on, Reid, I didn’t think you’d mind a little exercise.” With his mouth still full, he grinned.

Edmund breathed a half-hearted laugh, looking toward the ground. He scanned the leaves, the moss, the dirt.

Jackson’s knuckles grazed his cheek. “You know, Reid, despite my track record, it’s not the life I want, all right? But it’s the life I’ve got.”

Reid bowed his head and closed his eyes. He swallowed. “I left London for you.”

“I know.”

“For this.”

Jackson sighed, a heavy, forceful breath of air.  

“I left Mathilda.” Edmund’s heart clenched when he thought of his girl. She was well taken care of--Drummond would marry her, would give her a peaceful life. He knew it to be true. But he missed his girl, lost to him for so long.

“Look,” Jackson whispered, gruff and uneven. “You can go on home to Whitechapel. It’s not too late.” Jackson curled his hand around Edmund’s forearm. “Or you can come with me to Montana. I got a place there. It ain’t much, but--”

“I don’t--I don’t care about that. I--” Edmund huffed, emotion blocking his throat. Again, he cleared it, laying his free hand atop Jackson’s. “I’d like...a simple life. But what I _don’t_ want is to end up on the run every other week because you got mixed up with some--”

“I got it. I got it, Reid.” Jackson smiled at him. Soft, understanding. Jackson’s eyes hovered so close to his face. Edmund wet his lips as Jackson leaned toward him, as Jackson’s mouth slanted over his--warm, humid, and wanted. Desperately wanted. Jackson kissed him with reassurance. With confidence and affection.

Edmund hadn’t yet opened his eyes when Jackson continued. “Let me get us to Montana,” he said. His fingertips stroked a path from Edmund's temple to his chin. “And maybe along the way I’ll show you a few things you just might like.”

Edmund opened his eyes, scoffing. “Really? More bears?”

Jackson kissed him again. Slow and long. “Reid,” Jackson whispered.

“I’m James now.”

“What?” Jackson’s eyes flew open, and he pulled back.

Edmund drew a deep breath. “James,” he repeated.

“You’re _James_?”

With a frown, Edmund elaborated, “If you taught me anything, it was that a new life required a new identity.” He shrugged, reaching for Jackson’s hand. “I’m James Driver now.”

“How’d you--”

“James is--”

“Your second middle name, right.” Jackson squeezed his hand. Edmund’s heart faltered. “I got that, but _Driver_? Was that the best you could do?”

Edmund smiled, letting his eyes fall before raising them to Jackson’s face. “My mother’s maiden name.”

“Mm. Not very original, but it’ll do.” Jackson leaned forward to press a light, short kiss to his lips. When Jackson ended the kiss, he remained close, his face an inch away. When he spoke again, he whispered, his voice deep. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather call you by your real name.”

Blinking, Edmund responded with a grin. He allowed himself the liberty to touch Jackson, to let his hands glide along his forearms, to his triceps, around his shoulders, and up to the back of his head. He buried his fingers in Jackson’s hair. “And if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather call you by your false one.”

Jackson nodded, then stood. Taking Edmund by the hand, he led him on, toward the north.  


	7. Let Us Be Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson And Reid stop near the Grand Tetons on their journey to Montana, enjoying dinner, the scenery, and each other.

Once they stumbled out of the forest, they raided a village store. Reid dished out money for what he could afford, keeping the cashier busy, while Jackson stole a horde of other supplies. Matches. Dried fruit. Liquor. Coffee. Woolen blankets.

On their way out of town, Jackson managed to secure transportation across Wyoming on a medical supply wagon. Speaking the medical language of the doctor-driver, he earned his pity, and he and Reid climbed into the back of the wagon, bound for the Continental Divide and the Teton Range.

They made fast time across the state, cutting a path northwest. They encountered no obstacles, and the hours passed without interruption. Their hands wandered. They slept beside each other, under the same blanket.

They disembarked at a curve in the Snake River.

As the sun set, they made camp in a meadow, early season wildflowers all about them. In the distance, snow capped the jagged Teton Range.

“That there is the Grand Teton,” Jackson said, pointing.

Reid’s eyes followed the path of Jackson’s finger to the tallest peak. Jackson felt the heat of Reid’s body. He could smell him--different from how he smelled in London, but still warm and layered.

“Rises to almost fourteen-thousand feet,” Jackson mused, his voice full of wonder and admiration. “A mastiff, ain’t it?”

Reid stared. His chest expanded with his breath. Then, he nodded. “Indeed.”

Jackson caught Reid glancing toward the peaks throughout the evening, and he smiled to himself. He cooked for them--not jerky tonight, but fresh-enough beef. Ranch raised. Thick filets. With mushrooms. Jackson inhaled the rich scent of the food as it roasted, closing his eyes.

They ate in silence. Jackson found the lack of chatter gratifying.

With their stomachs finally full, Jackson laid back on the blankets. He scanned the sky. No clouds. What a stroke of luck. He spread his arms wide, inviting Reid to join him.

When Reid lay beside him, Jackson nodded toward the horizon. “This is the America I wanted you to see.”

Reid turned his head, his mouth twitching with the start of a smile. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

Jackson searched out Reid’s hand. “These mountains. Humans have been here for some ten-thousand years. We ain’t the first ones to gape at ‘em.”

“No,” Reid said, turning onto his side, propped up on his elbow. “But perhaps that’s why it is so marvelous.”

Jackson’s brow crinkled. “How do you mean?”

“Well, I mean that we are not the first.” Reid’s hand played over Jackson’s chest. His fingertips danced along his collarbone. “Nor will we be the last, to admire their beauty. It is a timeless thing, what we do.”

Then Jackson held his breath as Reid pressed against him and kissed him. Reid’s hand spread flat over the center of his chest while he slid his tongue into his mouth, slow and hesitant, as if he were asking for permission to proceed further.

He pulled away before Jackson could return his kiss. Instead of trying to elicit another, Jackson curved his hand over the back of Reid’s neck and eased Reid's head down to his shoulder, holding him close.

With his thumb, he stroked the ridge of bone behind Reid’s ear. “What made you change your mind?”

“Hmm?” Reid dropped a soft kiss on his neck.

“To come here. To follow me.” Jackson let his hand wander over Reid's shoulder, his fingers finding their way beneath Reid's collar. “What made you change your mind?”  

Reid shifted his head, offering Jackson easier access to his neck and shoulder, but remained quiet for several seconds. “I stood on the docks and watched your ship sail.” He drew a deep breath. “I...immediately felt the loss of you. And I knew it would never leave me.”

Jackson’s chest constricted. His mind flooded with images from that day. The two of them--three of them, with Connor--on the docks. Reid’s battered expression. London fading from sight, and Reid with it. As he did then, he tried to swallow past the bulky knot in his throat, and, as he could _not_ do then, he wrapped his arms around Reid and squeezed him. He nuzzled the side of Reid’s head.

“I _hurt_ , Reid,” he croaked, his voice cracking with strain and emotion. Reid’s face pressed into his neck, and Jackson reveled in the heat--the gust--of his breath. “When I boarded that damn boat. I wanted you with me.”

A strangled sound escaped Reid’s throat. Jackson blinked when Reid turned his face and kissed him. Sloppy and desperate. Fast. Breathy. Jackson’s heart clenched as he struggled to match Reid’s intensity, his hands easing Reid’s coat off his shoulders, undoing the buttons of his shirt.

Reid pushed his hands away, ending the kiss and shaking his head. Jackson watched, his mouth open, as Reid undressed him. Reid’s eyes never fell on his face until he lay naked on the blankets. Then Jackson saw Reid study his face as Reid’s hand wrapped firmly around his cock. As much as Jackson wanted to maintain eye contact, sensation and excitement overwhelmed him and he closed his eyes. His head fell back, landing softly on the fabric-covered earth, as Jackson moaned.

“Jesus, Reid,” he whispered, thrusting his hips and pushing his cock into Reid’s hand.

The contact did not last long; Jackson sighed, frustrated, when Reid took his hand away to straighten up and remove his waistcoat and shirt. Jackson’s eyes locked onto Reid, whose arms and shoulders flexed as he lowered himself between Jackson’s legs. In a matter of seconds, Reid’s lips closed around his cock, the wet heat of Reid’s mouth surrounding him. That heat--that smooth, neck-arching heat--moved down his shaft, made his muscles strain, made him groan Reid’s name.

Despite his curiosity, Jackson refrained from asking Reid if he had ever done this before--in part because he quickly saw no need to care. Reid sucked and licked with precision and enthusiasm. Jackson surveyed his skill. The tension in Jackson’s belly tightened into a hot coil. He reached down. His fingers grasped at Reid’s shoulder, then slid up his neck, into his hair.

Reid took it as a sign to suck him harder. Faster.

“Reid, stop,” Jackson panted, knowing his climax was close. “Reid.”

But instead of stopping, he took Jackson’s entire cock into his mouth and down his throat, his hands squeezing Jackson’s hips.

Jackson arched, moaned--his hands clenching fistfuls of Reid’s hair. His body jerked with his release.

He forced Reid onto his back and stripped off the rest of his clothes as soon as he recovered--although his breaths still came quick and shallow.

Jackson wasted no time. He knew that after Reid’s journey, after the _bear,_ after they made it to Montana, he would have more opportunities to explore, to test and tease Reid’s body. Now, he focused his efforts on making Reid squirm, and thrash, and thrust. He cataloged Reid’s reactions. Every hiccup, moan, unstoppable cry. And to hear him--to _see_ him--so unraveled made Jackson’s chest expand with fucking _love_ for Reid. Jackson glanced up, taking in the look of him.

Reid lay sprawled for him. His head rolled on the blanket. His chest and abdomen rose and fell rapidly, unevenly. A constant stream of short, quiet sounds and unfinished words fell from his lips. “Jacks...Jackson. I...ye…”

Jesus, he was mesmerizing. Lost, like that.

Jackson wanted to pull him close and whisper to him. He wanted to be inside Reid, so he could wrap his arms around him, feel him breathe, and kiss him as he rode out his orgasm.

But he settled for the next best option. He reached up and clasped both of Reid’s hands. Seconds later, Reid groaned loud enough for his voice to cross the entire river valley as he shook and spasmed with his climax.

“Now,” Jackson said, kissing Reid’s jaw and finding a comfortable place beside him. “Is this not the most romantic place you’ve ever been fucked, or what?”

Reid laughed, full and loud, and Jackson wanted to bottle the sound to hear it whenever he wished.

Covering them with another stolen blanket, he looked forward to a few day’s time, when he planned to show Reid around Yellowstone.


	8. The Moon Rose Over an Open Field

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund and Jackson make their way across Wyoming and into Montana. Along the way, they stop in Yellowstone and are called upon to rescue two girls from a river near their camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thank you to @iloveallofyounerds for being a lovely friend and Muse.
> 
> And thank you to everyone who gives this a read, especially those who leave me feedback and comments. So, so incredibly appreciated. ♥

For a while, they walked most of the time. It extended their journey by weeks--possibly a month or more. Edmund had lost track of the days.

They stayed off coach roads, careful to avoid Jackson’s previous employers. Jackson insisted they would have abandoned their pursuit by now, but Edmund exercised caution. He was not eager to face a bear a second time.

When they set off from their camp beside the Snake River, they did so with plenty of new equipment. After he had heard their story--or part of it--the wagon driver had bestowed upon them armfuls of gear: new boots, packs, even dehydrated food. Soap, towels, and extra clothes. The man must have fallen in love with one of them, Jackson had commented, but Edmund had chalked up his behavior to good will and had graciously accepted all the goods the driver had offered.

Several miles from camp, Jackson pulled Edmund to a stop. Edmund turned to peer at him, confused. “What is it?” he asked.

“Just…” Jackson trailed off, his eyes scanning Edmund from head to foot. “If you don’t look like a bonafide pioneer…”

Edmund’s face blushed pink. He breathed deliberately as he smiled--a close-mouthed, exasperated smile, but a smile nonetheless.

When Jackson led them into Yellowstone, Edmund followed with the curiosity and fascination of a child. His jaw constantly slack. His eyes constantly wide. His breath constantly stopped in his throat.

Edmund walked with Jackson across broad meadows. He stared at cliff faces that seemed to touch the sky. He clasped Jackson’s hand as he marveled at the brilliant colors and bubbly life of geothermal pools. Jackson wrapped his arm around his back and nosed at his neck, relaying all his knowledge of the caldera and history of the park. Edmund’s heart beat with love and awe.

“You know, Jackson. You’re right.” Edmund squeezed Jackson’s hand as they overlooked a herd of bison.

Jackson smiled against his cheek. “About many things, Reid, but...mind tellin’ me about what in particular?”

“You were right to want to show me this. This America.” He gestured to their surroundings. “I said it was beautiful before, but I...I didn’t realize…”

“Yeah, I know,” Jackson replied, kissing the corner of his mouth.

They undressed at the base of a cliff. Their moans echoed off the rock formations that towered above them.

Over time, Edmund’s paranoia waned. When they tired of walking, they talked their way-- _Jackson_ talked their way--onto stagecoaches and wagons, careful to survey the occupants before soliciting a ride. Weeks later, they arrived in Montana.

As they walked and rode over the terrain, Jackson taught him how to read the weather. Jackson pointed out patterns in the clouds--their formations, their positions relative to mountains, and their likely progression, based on the strength and direction of the winds. Edmund leaned close to Jackson whenever he imparted his backcountry wisdom, following the path of his arm to where he pointed. While Edmund studied the sky, Jackson would turn toward him and kiss his chin, his neck, his ear--and would draw from Edmund a shy smile, the weather forgotten.

They stopped for three days by a wide river, its name unknown to them. They hadn’t planned to stay so long, but, by Edmund’s decree, it became necessary.

The sun had already dipped behind the tallest peak when they arrived at the river--tired, dirty, and hungry. While Jackson set up camp, Edmund wandered into the river. He stripped and bathed, thankful for their bar of soap and supply of clean clothes. The sunbeams cast a warm heat on his bare skin, a stark contrast to the cold water--freezing-cold snowmelt, Jackson had warned him.

Jackson watched him, and Edmund tilted his head to beckon him over. “It is not so cold as you’d had me believe,” he teased, when Jackson joined him. “I find it invigorating.”

“Yeah, I can see,” Jackson said, all smiles, volleying Edmund’s tease as he glanced down at Edmund’s half-erect cock. “I was about to do some fishin’—”

“It can wait.” Edmund helped Jackson stumble out of his clothes, then pulled him close. Jackson bore the scent of weeks in the outdoors, of pine and warm earth. He watched as Jackson stole the soap and washed, Edmund’s eyes drawn to the sunshine that reflected off the droplets of water on Jackson’s shoulders--his arms, his chest. His hands smoothed over Jackson's soapy skin. He leaned forward and tasted Jackson's neck, rinsed and clean.

Edmund prepared to drop to his knees in the cold river water when Jackson stopped him, his breaths labored. “Wait, Edmund, wait.” His toothy smile nearly made Edmund tackle him with fresh kisses. “I'm starvin’. What do you say we, uh, fish first, fuck later?”

Repressing his disappointment, Edmund started to dress. Both he and Jackson had only pulled on their drawers and trousers before they froze, stopped by a panicked woman sprinting over the riverbank.

She cried for help before she reached them. “My girls!” She yelled, a woman possessed, pointing with frantic jabs toward the river. “My girls! They can't swim!”

Edmund's heart contracted around the plea in her words. _My girls._ Many times in his life, in his head and out loud, he had made a similar plea. His eyes immediately swiveled to the water. Upriver, two small bodies bobbed with the rush and flow of the current.

“They tried to grab for branches, but the current—and they—they can’t _swim_!”

He glanced at Jackson, whose head jerked with a single, quick nod. Then, together, they turned and forged their way into the river, cutting across the current. Edmund hoped to intercept the girls—to hold their positions against the current and catch the children as they passed.

But when the water rose past Edmund’s hips, it stole his breath. It rushed and splashed as high as his chest, shocking him. _Paralyzing_ him. In a panic, his eyes darted to Jackson. Edmund saw the stubborn determination on Jackson’s face—his set jaw, his focused eyes, flared nostrils. The display inspired him to draw upon his own strength, and he concentrated hard, forcing his lungs to expand and fill with air as he battled the current.

In what seemed like seconds, the water carried the girls toward them. Edmund managed to get his arms around one of them, while Jackson thrashed for the other. The girl cried and kicked as Edmund waded toward the shore. He struggled to calm her and keep his eyes on Jackson. When he reached the water’s edge, he turned the girl over to her mother, who wrapped the girl in a tight embrace.

The river had borne the other girl past Jackson, and Edmund watched from the bank, helpless— _use_ less—as Jackson fought against the water to reach her. The girl managed to seize a tree branch and cling to it, wailing for help as if Jackson was not fiercely paddling in her direction. Edmund saw the girl finally catch sight of Jackson and stretch out her arm.

Then Jackson disappeared beneath the surface. Only his hat floated atop the water. It rushed downriver without him.

Edmund stood fear-frozen on the bank. He nearly stormed into the river, but stopped suddenly, ankle-deep in the water, when Jackson reappeared. He sputtered and renewed his fight against the current. When he reached the branch, he folded around it and rested.

Edmund allowed himself a moment of calm before his throat closed with anxiety. His eyes remained locked on Jackson, who took hold of the girl and struggled to drag her toward the opposite shore. Once, both Jackson and the girl dipped beneath the choppy waves. Once, the girl panicked and, in an attempt to stay above the water, pushed Jackson’s head under the surface. Edmund heard the roar of Jackson’s voice, though not his words; _at least_ , Edmund thought, _Jackson still has strength enough to yell_.

Jackson collapsed before he cleared the water. While the girl sprinted into her mother’s arms, Edmund ran to Jackson. He crashed to his knees in the pebbly riverbed. “ _Jack_ son! _Jackson_!” he shouted, sliding his arms under Jackson’s shoulders. He laid Jackson’s head on his thighs and pawed at him. He pushed Jackson’s hair off his forehead and folded the collar of his shirt—his hands busy, but unsure of what to do. Jackson’s eyes were closed. “Jackson,” he whispered, tracing Jackson’s cheekbone. “Come back. I love you.” He struggled to swallow. His chest hurt, constricted with fear. “I love you.”

When Jackson drew a shaky breath and blinked at him, a tiny, strangled cry escaped him. Tears burned in his eyes and blurred his vision.

“Reid.”

“Jackson.” A hefty exhale left him, his body sagging with relief. “Jackson, what can I do?”

Waves still lapped at Jackson’s chest. “Well, help me out of this God-forsaken river, for starters.”

So Edmund helped Jackson out of that God-forsaken river while the mother and her girls thanked them both and skittered away. Fifteen minutes later, Edmund settled Jackson on a makeshift bed of blankets beside a fire that mirrored the sunset above them—all shades of faint reds and deep oranges.

Jackson was weak. His eyelids fluttered as he tried to stay awake. His arms and hands shivered with cold. Edmund covered him with a woolen blanket, kissed his forehead, and said, “I’ll find some food.”

Jackson had the decency not to laugh at him. Perhaps he had not the strength, but Edmund appreciated it all the same.

Taking Jackson’s fishing rod, Edmund wandered back to the river. He had never caught a fish in his life. But Jackson needed fish. He needed _food_ , and Edmund refused to rifle through the woods for berries and mushrooms. So, it would be fish. And it would be up to _him_ to catch, clean, and cook this fish.

It took him until after dark to _catch_ the damned wily creature.

But, once he had cleaned the fish, the symphonic crack-and-sizzle of the meat and skin over the fire made him warm with satisfaction. Jackson smiled at him—as bashful as he had ever seen—and Edmund beamed as he served Jackson a plate of half-charred trout.

He waited until Jackson had eaten his fill, then finished what little remained of the fish.

With dishes cleaned and packed away, Edmund laid next to Jackson, who turned onto his side and rested his head on Edmund’s chest. When Jackson curled an arm around him, Edmund rested his hand on Jackson’s forearm. His other hand held open a paperback book.

Jackson’s voice quickly interrupted him. “Where did you find a _book_?”

Edmund's ears went hot and his mouth formed a tight, tense line. At length, he replied, “I stole it.”

Jackson moved with newfound energy and pushed himself up to look Edmund in the face. Jackson’s eyebrows jumped with surprise. “You _stole_ it?”

The heat in Edmund’s ears rushed into his cheeks, and he shifted, uncomfortable with embarrassment.

“You stole a _book_.” Jackson’s surprise morphed into glee. “Of _course_ you stole a book.”

Edmund’s defenses rose, and his head whipped around to glare at Jackson. “ _You_ stole whiskey.”

Jackson shrugged, unbothered, then resettled himself against Edmund’s side, his head back on Edmund’s chest. “Helps me sleep,” Jackson murmured.

“As does this,” Edmund said, his eyes returning to the page while his arm cradled Jackson’s shoulders.

“What’ve you got, anyway?”

“ _The Invisible Man._ ”

“Good?”

“Quite good.”

Jackson trailed his knuckles across Edmund’s shoulder. Edmund hadn’t yet read to the bottom of the page before Jackson pressed a kiss to his collarbone. “So. Gonna read some of this _quite good_ book to me, or what?”

Edmund grinned. “Well, that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you will keep your mouth shut long enough to listen.”

Edmund felt Jackson’s smile on his skin. “Well, before I shut up, I wanna say somethin’.”

“And what’s that?”

“I love you, too.”

Edmund stared at his book, his eyes unfocused. His mouth fell open, but he remained silent. He felt Jackson’s face nuzzle his neck—the warmth of his breath, the scratch of his beard. The fire crackled and popped. It cast a golden glow on their bodies, complementing the wash of cool moonlight that lit the nearby forest, the river, the field where they lay.

He wondered if Jackson could hear his heart pound in his chest. _He_ could, and self-consciousness made him close his eyes and concentrate on regulating both his breath and heartbeat.

By the time he turned his eyes back toward his book, Jackson lay heavy on him, asleep. Jackson breathed slow and even. His arm stretched across Edmund’s body. His hand curved around Edmund’s arm in a loose, warm grip.

Edmund’s mouth twitched with a soft smile as Jackson squeezed his arm and hummed.

Then he set his book aside. He enveloped Jackson in the full circle of his arms, closed his eyes, and joined Jackson in sleep.


	9. Real Estate Here In My Bag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After many weeks and many miles, Jackson introduces Reid to their new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thank you to @iloveallofyounerds for being a lovely friend and Muse.
> 
> And thank you to everyone who gives this a read, especially those who leave me feedback and comments. So, so incredibly appreciated. ♥

Like God damned Odysseus, they circled their new home for weeks.

While Jackson still lived in Wyoming, he had anticipated the day when trouble would force him to abandon his Cheyenne homestead in favor of another. So he’d made that “other” in Helena, Montana. As soon as he had wormed his way into a crowd of robbers and killers, he had set about his preparations. Life had schooled him. Have a backup plan, always.

His backup plan had taken the form of a small, two-story house on North Hoback Street. He had pooled the money Caitlin had left him via Jane Cobden--a surprise, certainly--and had turned that dirty bearer-bond money into clean livin’. He had reserved the ground level for business. A doctor’s suite and offices, with a kitchen. Awkward perhaps, but workable. He had made the top floor into primary living quarters. A bathroom, two bedrooms, and a tiny sitting room. Quaint enough. Practical enough. Backup enough.

Circumstances had prevented Jackson from entering his own home--from hugging his boy, from showing Reid their new bedroom. Circumstances that took the form of his former employers, who stalked his address, their keen eyes on the lookout for him. Jackson kept to the alleys and spied, a plan coalescing in his head.

He visited North Hoback every couple days, but always returned to Reid, who held down their meager fort in the woodsy outskirts of town.

“Any different today?” Reid asked, impatience evident in his voice.

“No,” Jackson answered, his tone sober, but not unhopeful. “But listen, I...I’ve got a plan.”

Jackson could hardly blame Reid for the skepticism that blanketed his tanned, freckled, God damned handsome face.

“If, for one _second,_ you suggest you offer yourself as _bait,_ Captain, I will--”

“No, Reid. No,” Jackson interrupted, then met Reid’s eyes. He held his gaze for a long, drawn-out moment before he said, “No. I thought we could use _you_ as bait.” Jackson grinned. “What d’you think?”

Reid’s quirked eyebrow told him all that he needed to know.

So, in his sad, bear-shredded suit--unbefitting the Inspector Reid that Jackson knew--Reid strolled past Jackson’s address and the thug-sentries that guarded it. One, present on the day of the bear-battle in question, recognized Reid and made to capture him.

Reid drew his pursuer into the trees. Jackson waited for Reid to run past, then clothes-lined the bandit. Jackson’s reflexes--his _sober_ reflexes, on top of his quick thinking--bettered the bandit’s, and Jackson had him pressed to the ground, his forearm across his throat, in a matter of seconds. Reid looked on with a proud smile that made Jackson’s heart leap.

Reid leaned close and whispered in his ear, “We may make you a police officer yet, Captain Jackson.”

Jackson shivered, the hair on his arms and neck raised with anticipation. Reid’s approval made Jackson that much more ruthless, threatening death to their captive if he or any of his associates appeared anywhere near his premises again.

Based on the observations of the following week, their threats seemed to have worked. Jackson assumed his alley position and watched for any representatives of his former employer. His eyes scanned the entire street. Every indication suggested that they had retreated. Turned tail and run back to Wyoming.

But Jackson gave it another couple weeks.

One week in, Jackson caught Reid scribbling on a scrap of paper. He stole the envelope and read the words that adorned it.

“Why are you writing to Castello?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“I’m not,” Reid answered. He never raised his head from his unfinished letter. “I’m writing to Mathilda. Castello is our go-between.”

Jackson nodded. “Smart.” When Reid wasn’t looking, Jackson memorized the address. Then he left Reid where he sat to return to the house.

Two weeks passed with no sign of them. No thugs. No bandits. No unfamiliar faces. So Jackson crept to the door, fished for the key in his pocket, and opened the locked door.

It took a few whispers, then a few shouts, but, soon enough, Jackson squeezed Connor in his arms. “My boy. My boy,” he whispered, petting his smooth blond hair. “How are you, my boy?”

Connor smiled. “Good, Daddy. Have you come home now?”

Tears glazed Jackson’s eyes. He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve come home.”

Reid recognized the expression on Jackson’s face when he trudged into their camp. Jackson released a series of heavy, relieved breaths as Reid wrapped his arms around Jackson’s ribs and held him up, pulled him close.

Jackson had previously acknowledged but had never _appreciated_ how large and solid Reid stood. Reid held him, reliable and strong, kissing a swirvy path across his neck. He pledged his love and care with raspy whispers, his lips brushing Jackson’s ear.

Jackson grasped at him. He squeezed Reid’s arms, his shoulders, and heaved against him. “My boy,” he breathed. “My boy.”

“I know.” Reid kissed his temple. His forehead. “I know.”

The truth of Reid’s words--their sincerity--permeated Jackson’s skin and reached his blood, his muscles, his marrow. He took comfort in it--in Reid, leaning heavily against him, allowing himself to be held, to feel the warmth of Reid’s body. _Reid_ ’s body. _His_ Reid.

_His._

“Reid.”

Reid tightened his arms around him.

“I want to go home.”

With two weeks gone, they went home.

Jackson insisted on holding onto Reid’s hand as they approached the threshold, as he gripped the doorknob and pushed open the door.

When he wrapped Connor in his arms again, Jackson could sense--before he _saw_ \--the melancholy longing on Reid’s face.

Before the sun set, while Reid unpacked his scant belongings in their bedroom, Jackson wrote to Mathilda via Castello.

_We’re at 12 North Hoback Street. We’re safe. Relatively happy. Write as soon as possible. Your father misses you. Let me know when you can visit--it can be our surprise._

Jackson knew she would respond. He knew she would visit. She was her father’s daughter.

Later that day, Jackson gave Reid a tour.

“Here’s the doctor’s suite,” he said, gesturing to the entire left side of the house--a suite of two rooms. One, his office. Another, his examination room. Reid nodded and smiled politely.

Reid finally lit up when Jackson led him into an empty room on the right side of the house. “This is yours,” he said.

“Mine?”

“If you want it.” Jackson walked to the window. “I was thinkin’ a desk could go here.” He gestured to the empty space. “And,” he added, grabbing Reid’s hand and pulling him out of the room, into the hall, and out the front door. “Here”--Jackson pointed to the top of the doorframe--”we could hang a sign: James Driver, Private Investigator.”

Reid’s expression softened. He reached for Jackson’s hand and squeezed.

“I might have ordered the sign already.”

Reid dropped his head, but Jackson caught the broad smile that spread across his face.

“Come on,” Jackson said, tugging Reid inside. “Let’s go to bed.”

Jackson made sure Connor was asleep before he joined Reid in bed. Then he kissed his way down Reid’s chest and over his abdomen. He relished the soft comfort of their bedcovers and mattress, shielded from the elements and safe--safe inside, safe with each other--while he made Reid arch, and moan, and come.

Jackson felt a sense of pride as Reid fell asleep in his arms, in the house that he had found for them. A new house for a new life, together.


	10. Marry Our Fortunes Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Settled into their new home, Edmund receives a wonderful, Jackson-orchestrated surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thank you to @iloveallofyounerds for being a lovely friend and Muse.
> 
> And thank you to everyone who gives this a read, especially those who leave me feedback and comments. So, so incredibly appreciated. ♥

Edmund woke alone.

He blinked as the clouds shifted and the sun shone onto his face. For a moment, the rays disoriented him, and he briefly believed he lay outside. But the scent of recently laundered bedclothes and the distant _clinks_ -and- _tinks_ of dishware returned him to reality. With bleary, just-awake eyes, he peered at the empty space beside him and the rumpled bedclothes, tossed to one side.

Visions of one night last filled his mind. Jackson had urged him onto his hands and knees, stretched him open with an oiled finger, and made him lose control of himself in a pleasure-clouded frenzy. With his breath returned, Edmund had steadied himself with one hand pressed flat to the headboard while Jackson fucked him. Jackson’s hands curved around his hips. Jackson’s mouth kissed between his shoulder blades. Jackson’s cock slid—slow and easy—deep inside him.

Edmund’s eyes strayed to Jackson’s bedside table. A folded letter captured his attention. He wormed his way across the mattress, snatched the letter, and started to read.

_Dear Captain Jackson,_

_I wait at the docks as I write to you. My vessel boards—_

Like some silent, nonchalant cat, Jackson ambled into the room.

Edmund tore his gaze from the neat,  _familiar_ script and found Jackson in the doorway. He quickly threw the letter back onto the table as if he had never touched it.

“I saw that,” he said, a wry smile stretching across Jackson’s face. He glanced at the letter, then Edmund, before he set a tray at the foot of the bed and crawled onto the mattress. “You know, in this country, it’s illegal to read someone else’s mail.”

Edmund grinned, meeting Jackson’s eyes. His curiosity pulled his mind back to the letter that lay only inches away. “Should I be concerned that you will report me to the police?”

“No,” Jackson said, his voice gruff. Jackson’s arm snaked under the bedclothes and curled around Edmund’s waist, his thumb drawing lazy-morning lines across Edmund’s ribs. “No, but that’s not to say you won’t be held accountable. Just not today.”

Edmund raised his eyebrows, then pointed at the tray. “What is that?”

Jackson leaned back, affronted. “Breakfast.”

Edmund scanned the tray with skepticism. He turned unimpressed eyes toward Jackson. “ _That_ is your idea of breakfast? Good God, Jackson. We’re not in the _woods_ anymore.”

With a scowl, Jackson pulled the tray closer to them. “D’you want to eat, or don’t you? _I_ think it’s one hell of a spread.” He swept a hand over the tray—toast, coffee _and_ tea, an assortment of jams, fresh fruit.

Jackson had _tried_ , at least.

Edmund poured himself a cup of coffee and sipped it. He offered no indication that he liked it, but he found it delightful—smooth, full-bodied, and rich. Instead, he sat up and plucked a piece of toast from the tray. “Remind me to show you how to prepare a proper breakfast, will you?”

With a full mouth, Jackson replied, “I’m sure you’ll remember all on your own.”

Bypassing the strawberry and apricot, Edmund plunged his knife into the raspberry jam and spread it across his toast. “In _all_ the years you spent in London, I would have  thought you’d have been treated to a proper breakfast, at one time or another.” He chewed his toast and swallowed before he added, “But clearly not.”

Jackson peeled an orange, remaining silent. The bright citrus scent filled Edmund’s nose.

Intrigued by Jackson’s refusal to argue—or at least snipe back at him—Edmund prodded further. “It amazes me. Truly. You were there for—what? Ten? Fifteen years?”

Jackson shrugged. “What can I say, Reid? Some of the finer points of English culture escaped me, it seems.”

“Yes. It seems so.” Edmund eyed him suspiciously, watching as Jackson devoured his orange. Then guzzled a cup of coffee. Edmund tilted his head, his eyebrows drawn close. “You’re eating awfully fast, Captain.”

“And _you,_ ” Jackson countered, swallowing the last of his breakfast. “Slow as a damned snail.” Edmund followed Jackson’s gaze, which landed on his half-eaten piece of toast. “What? Not hungry, Reid?”

“No, I simply prefer to taste my food,” he responded, taking another sip of his coffee. “Not in _hale_ it.”

“Well,” Jackson said, as he checked his pocket watch. It did not occur to Edmund until that moment that Jackson was fully dressed. His clothes—every strand of hair—in place. “We ain’t got a whole lot of time for that.”

“And why not?”

“Because you slept in, you lazy ass,” he teased, but with a note of seriousness, as he took hold of Edmund’s arm and pulled him out of bed.

“No,” Edmund said, trying to arrive at the root of Jackson’s meaning. “I mean to ask—”

“Just get dressed.”

“Jackson, what on _earth_ —”

“Here.”

Edmund’s trouser’s sailed across the room, struck his chest, and fell to the floor. Edmund scrambled to retrieve them.

A shirt followed. “Here.”

A smile stretched across Edmund’s face. “I never thought I would see the day when _you_ would be maneuvering me _into_ clothes rather than _out_ of them.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m ever the surprise.” Jackson smirked, throwing a tie around Edmund’s neck.

Edmund tucked in his shirt, hyper-aware of every brush of Jackson’s hands as he positioned and knotted the tie. With his waistcoat on and buttoned, Edmund watched Jackson’s face, alive with concentration. Jackson bit his bottom lip as he worked, and Edmund’s cheeks warmed when he realized he had mirrored Jackson, his own lip between his teeth. He tried to reach for a coat, but Jackson steered him toward the door.

“You don’t need a coat,” Jackson proclaimed. “Come on.”

With a stifled smile, Edmund followed Jackson out of the room, down the stairs, and to the front door.

Without preamble, Jackson opened the door.

Mathilda— _Mathilda—_ stood there, two trunks stacked beside her. She clutched a hard case in her hand. A smile spread full and wide across her face.

Edmund froze. His mouth fell open. He stared at her—amazed, surprised. Happiness and joy rose like a spring inside him.

He looked to Jackson, who smiled at him, before returning his attention to his daughter. She dropped her case and leapt toward him, tackling him with a warm, tight embrace.

“Father,” she whispered. Her arms squeezed his shoulders. Her face pressed into his neck. “Father. I am so happy to see you.”

Edmund’s throat closed. He tried to swallow and failed. So he held his girl, standing with her on the doorstep until he found his words.

“The two of you—the letter—you—”

“Conspired?” Mathilda found her feet, but kept her hands on her father’s arms. “We did indeed.”

Jackson quirked his eyebrows, but offered no other corroboration.

“Are you…” Edmund surveyed her luggage. “Mathilda, I would have you here as long as you like, but—how long do you plan to stay?”

“A month, if you’ll have me.” She smiled, broad and relaxed. “But, father, hardly any of this is mine. Most of it is yours.”

“Mine?”

“Yes, Captain Jackson mentioned he grew quite tired of allowing you to borrow all of his things.”

Edmund rounded on Jackson. “A _llow_ me to—”

“ _Here_ , father,” Mathilda interjected, her voice loud and insistent, drawing his attention to a now-opened trunk.

Edmund’s eyes followed the sweep of Mathilda’s arm and scanned the contents of the trunk. Clothes. Books. Pens. Journals. Photographs. Piles upon piles of personal, treasured instruments, possessions, and keepsakes. He raised his eyes to her, his expression soft.

Jackson’s voice broke the silence. “Let’s just…” He dragged the trunks just inside the door. “Let’s just leave ‘em here. Come on in.”

Edmund stepped aside to clear a path for Mathilda, pulled by Jackson. Struck speechless, Edmund forced a swallow and watched Mathilda pass. As she climbed the stairs, his eyes fell upon the trunks, then swiveled to Jackson, then Mathilda. Back to Jackson, whose lips twitched with an affectionate grin _._

Jackson moved to follow Mathilda up the stairs, but Edmund reached for him. He wrapped his hand around Jackson’s arm and pulled him to an abrupt stop.

“Reid, what—”

He swallowed Jackson’s words, covering Jackson’s mouth and kissing him. Jackson’s moan—deep and quiet—sent a shiver down Edmund’s body, and it prompted him to push Jackson’s lips apart, to slide his tongue against Jackson’s—taste him. Thank him. “I know this was your doing.”

“Yeah. Well. You’re welcome,” Jackson whispered, then cleared his throat, an embarrassed blush high on his cheeks. When Jackson took his hand, he squeezed it. “Now let’s go see to your girl.”

Edmund refused to release Jackson’s hand as they entered the small second-floor sitting room. Mathilda should know, he reasoned. She should know all.

His heart nearly burst when she looked to their joined hands, then met his eyes with a proud, loving smile. Peace and calm curled about his chest as he returned her smile and sat down, relaying all that had happened since he had left London, his hand still clasped to Jackson’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. If y'all didn't notice, the story's title and each chapter title comes from Simon and Garfunkel's "America." Give it a listen if you've never heard it. 
> 
> And thank you again for reading! I am so grateful to all of you. This has been such a pleasure to write. ♥


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